


gonna soak up the sun

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beach House, Beaches, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Dream Pack, Everyone Is Alive, Everything is happy, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Gangbang, Healthy Relationships, Intimacy, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, M/M, Nothing Hurts, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Prokopenko (Raven Cycle) Lives, Restraints, Shower Sex, Summer, but it doesn't HURT hurt, can you tell that my SAD is acting up?, i mean some stuff might hurt, it's the BEACH, joseph kavinsky's intimacy kink, poly dream pack, ya feel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: K loved vacations. He especially loved vacations with his pack all around him, all of them grown taller and broader and more vicious in the intervening years betweensixteen and dyingandtwenty-three and living.(K never died, Prokopenko is not in a sad dreamboy coma, everyone is okay, and it's time for a beach vaycay. With sexy results.)





	gonna soak up the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Listen guys, it's a long time until summer and I needed this fic. Write the fic you need to see in the world. Comment on this shit or I swear I won't write the Gangsey summer vaycay fic I KNOW you all want to read.

_i spent two weeks_

_in silver lake—_

_the California sun_

_cascading down my face._

_***_

“Goddamn” K said contemplatively from behind the high ground of his shades, and craned his neck just a bit so he could reach the straw stuck down in his pineapple margarita. The condensation from his glass had left a ring on his sternum. The water glistened on his skin, just as bright in the summer sun as the diamond-capped barbells pierced through his nipples. He was pink even with the liberal slather of sunscreen from this morning, freckles blooming new on his shoulders like wildflowers. “God _damn,”_ he sighed for a second time, clearly pleased, letting his head droop back onto its comfy cushion again.

Swan’s _summer motherfuckers_ Spotify playlist played low and mellow. The breeze was slight and tasted like the ocean, like saltwater and coconut chapstick and rum. Everything was _warm._ Everything felt _good._

Across the way, Proko lunged for the ground, arms outstretched and sunglasses precariously perched on the edge of his beaky nose. He grunted when his torso slammed against and then skidded on the grainy sand, but the volleyball he’d gone after bounced off his interlocked fists obediently, high enough that Skov could set and then spike it violently over the net, past Jiang and Swan’s reach.

“Fuck your _mother!”_ Swan spat, Russian clumsy on his British tongue. He more than made up for the awkward delivery with his sun-drunk strawberry-daiquiri-mouthed vehemence.

K snorted, eyes closed and limbs buzzy, at the sound, inaudible beneath the bass-heavy croon of Shwayze, reminding him of summers long since past.  

They kept the game up with grunts and good-natured swearing, working up a dripping sweat that pooled in the smalls of their backs, behind their knees, in the bowl-like dips of their collarbones. They’d make their way into the water sooner rather than later, but for now preferred to exert themselves into a froth. K lazily watched, and even more lazily groped himself with one hand, not quite turned on but also definitely not turned _off._

It was a syrupy serendipity, for sure. K loved vacations. He especially loved vacations with his pack all around him, all of them grown taller and broader and more vicious in the intervening years between _sixteen and dying_ and _twenty-three and living._

The little, brand-new differences in each of them were intoxicating to discover whenever they returned to him from the far-flung kingdoms they’d carved for themselves. He adored the hemlock tattooed on Skov’s ribs, blooming large and deadly. His mouth watered at the sight of Swan’s shorn-short nape and the designs etched into it, geometric and sharp. Jiang’s gold-capped top-left incisor had him insensate with _want._ Proko’s new gym regimen had fleshed out the potential in his wide but bony shoulders, and K was cross-eyed in his desire every time he contemplated the power in that body.

He’d thought, once, that he’d hate them for going away, for changing. For becoming something he’d not created, not shaped, not _fucked up._

With age had come wisdom though, and even Proko’s leaving had not torn him apart the way he’d anticipated it would. The sun still rose and set, the vodka still went down smooth as cold glass, there were still fistfuls of cash to collect and launder and deposit.

And there was still his _pack._

***

They’d left their bathing suits wrapped around the posts on the deck, draped over the outdoor shower’s curtain rod, abandoned in soaked piles just inside the sliding door that separated _outside_ from _inside._ K had ended the porno-setup beach volleyball match with a bellow of _which one of you sluts is gonna get me another drink?_

As it turned out, _all_ of his sluts were going to get him another drink, and this was how K found himself insensately drunk before three o’clock, draped all boneless over one of the rental’s yayo-white couches, sunburnt and wearing nothing but his chain and the various diamond-encrusted bars pierced through his sundry bits of cartilage. What a life.

Swan battered around the kitchen’s cabinets while Jiang finely chopped something that looked suspiciously green and healthy, rhythmic as a metronome. Proko lay naked on the other couch, book propped up on his chest and reading glasses on.

“Listen to this,” Proko began absently, in the tone he always had when he was utterly engrossed by something. K usually liked that tone, because he only ever heard it in two situations— when Proko was utterly engrossed by his cock, and, less often, when Proko was about to read him something that bored him to actual tears. Unfortunately, this was an example of the latter, not the former. “‘This is my spot. All mine. I come here to read. I can’t tell you how many books I’ve read here.’ ‘Do you like being alone?’ He asked. ‘No. No one likes being alone. But I’ve learned how to live with it.’ ‘Are you always so very wise?’ He asked. Was he about to adopt a condescending, pre-lecture—“

“Unless they’re going to fuck, I literally couldn’t care less, babe.” K interrupted, and in the wake of Proko’s sputtering insistence that _yes,_ they were going to fuck but that wasn’t the _point,_ K, _honestly,_ he rose on half-numb feet and stretched, scratching at the line of sand-encrusted hair between his navel and cock with a fabled kind of honesty that once he’d been too godlike to perform, too practiced at being _above and apart_ to even unconsciously admit he was human.

The shower was running upstairs, and had been for nigh-on twenty minutes. Skov had always taken his time, obscene in his luxuriating with his two different kinds of shampoo and his hundred dollar conditioner and all the various oils and scrubs that rendered him looking almost hatefully beautiful at any given second. K left Proko to his reading and Swan and Jiang to their cooking, though there was a suspect lack of rattling pots and pans currently emanating from the kitchen, which made him think that probably they’d found other ways to amuse themselves while the food simmered or baked or whatever the fuck food did.

Skov had left the bathroom door half-open, unselfconscious to the bone, and draped thick towels all over the floor because he despised the feel of cold tile on his soles right after a shower and also didn’t give a shit about water usage or dirty laundry. K felt light-headed in the steam after spending so much of the morning getting drunk in the sun. It added to the anticipation, the almost-voyeuristic jolt of pleasure that surged straight to his cock at the murky sight of Skov through the frosted glass wall of the shower.

He hesitated a moment before making his presence fully known, just admiring the smudgy nakedness he could see, taking in all the power rush that came from this, from looking and not being seen but knowing he was welcome anyway. He would always be welcome. If he hadn’t fucked all _this_ up when he was actively trying to die and didn’t much care if he took the whole pack with him, he knew he wasn’t capable of fucking it up now.

“Skovron,” he said, soft, just a little bit above the music, to announce himself. Skov didn’t jump, only turned his head a bit and grinned, a white flash barely visible through the steam and the barrier between them. An invitation, and one K took gladly, opening the shower door with greedy fingers and swimmy-gazed arousal.

The inside of the shower smelled overbearingly of Skov’s various cosmetics, all of them painstakingly picked out to add harmonious layers to Skov’s _scent palette._ It was the kind of fuckery that K had been teasing him about mercilessly since they were fourteen, almost a whole fucking decade ago now, when he’d read it in a _GQ_ and took the bullshit to heart.

(Soon enough he’d have known these boys longer than he hadn’t. What intimacy. What _intimacy.)_

“You want something?” Skov lilted, head tipped back so the rainfall showerhead could wash clean his aggressively-blonde hair. He’d kept it blue for years, but last New Year’s Eve had arrived at K’s party with locks brighter than the chandelier lights, almost as white as his orthodontist-perfected teeth. K’d spent the first seconds of 2018 with his fingers in Skov’s bright _bright_ new hair and his cock in Skov’s mouth, the two of them crammed into a coat closet where the air was close and hot.

Not unlike this shower, actually, and the vivid sense memory had K fully hard already, where before he’d been just most of the way there. “Spread your legs,” he commanded, and wrapped his hands around Skov’s ribs, palms to the new tattoos that he’d been admiring earlier. How pretty they were, against Skov’s carefully-cultivated tan. How soft Skov’s skin was, everywhere, thanks to all these balms and butters and potions.

Skov laughed. “You’re not fucking my ass before dinner.” He said, crude words that dropped easily from his strawberry-pink mouth, vulgarity out of place with his princely appearance. It was something K had always loved about Jacek Skovron— his willingness to debase himself.

“What about your throat?” K tried, and plastered himself up against Skov’s back, not a little bit because his knees were feeling weak and his head was getting woozy. The wet, well-exfoliated skin of Skov’s ass felt like slick silk against his cock and it was really _good,_ inane thoughts of _wow_ and _fuck_ whooshing through K’s mind, his blood up and rushing in his ears.

“Gross,” Skov snickered, but arched his back, opened his thighs just a _bit._ Just enough that when he tightened them back up again he’d caught K between them, and the hot, frictionless grasp had K moaning low in his throat, bending his head in benediction to press his forehead to Skov’s nape, set his teeth in the bunching muscle between his shoulder blades.

“Show _you_ gross,” K mumbled around his mouthful of skin, and rocked his hips forward, thrusting so the head of his cock struck Skov all along where it felt best, _almost_ as good as fucking for real, and it felt even better when he considered how good it felt to be told _no,_ how sweet it was to know that these were _his_ boys, but only because they _wanted_ to be. Wanted him, not just his drugs and his dreams.

“Yeah, yeah,” Skov panted, groaning. “Hurry up, m’gonna have to clean up after you and I want to eat before I’m fifty, thanks.”

K gave him the reach-around, biting a dark mark into his shoulders that couldn’t be washed away with whatever fancy elixirs Skov had lined the shower’s shelf with. To be petty, he knocked them off with his elbow as he made Skov come, spattering the inside of those immaculate thighs at the sound Skov made, both annoyed and satisfied.

“I’m gonna puke,” he told Skov pleasantly enough, chest heaving and sobriety falling upon him rapidly in the muggy heat and afterglow.

“You say the sweetest things,” Skov snorted, but he held K’s hair back and didn’t complain about it when he had to all-but-carry him to the nearest bedroom, just tucked him under the sheet but not the duvet and left him the dark to sleep it off, ceiling fan turned up high.

***

“Shh, you’ll wake him up!”

“Nah, that’s all you,”

“Fuck!”

K groaned himself awake, stretching luxuriously until he felt his whole spine popping, curling his toes until they popped too, grinning at the sickening sound and the anticipation of hearing the grossed-out _ugh!_ Jiang always made whenever he did it. He wasn’t disappointed— Jiang said _ugh!_ in disgust, and K laughed.

“Did I miss dinner, baby?” He mumbled muzzily into the mattress, not specifying which _baby_ he meant. Same hat. What _ever._ They were all his _baby._ Separate and as a single writhing entity of simultaneous rabidity and poise, they were his _baby._

“Saved you a plate.” Swan responded, and ran a hand through his tangled, still-damp hair. It felt good. K butted his head up, asking silently for more.

“Like a fuckin’ cat,” Skov laughed, close to his ear— he tangled their legs together and pressed in close. His breath smelled like steak and some no-doubt-excellent wine.

With three of his boys accounted for and no real drive to open his eyes anytime soon, K flapped out a hand above his head and was not disappointed when Proko laced their fingers together and allowed himself to be tugged and awkwardly maneuvered until he had K’s head in his lap, maximizing the hair-stroking that could be had.

“Shh,” K said, his breath stirring the fine pale hairs on Proko’s thigh and his pillow-creased cheek finding a new home nestled in the soft, well-worn fabric of Proko’s shorts. “Gonna sleep.”

“Dream us something,” Jiang murmured, a bit further away than K liked but close enough that he didn’t complain.

“Dream us _everything.”_ Skov breathed.

 _You already_ are, _though,_ K thought as he fell back asleep.

***

K dreamt that someone was sucking his cock.

K woke up, body twisted a bit unnaturally, to someone sucking his cock.

“Good fuckin’ _morning,”_ he grunted, eyes fluttering open, bound and contorted and surrounded by his boys.

It was a good way to wake up.

“Not quite,” Jiang whispered in his ear. “Not yet dawn.”

K nodded restlessly, mindlessly, and tried to crane his neck a little more so he could get a better look at Swan, who had him by the hip and whose throat he was currently balls-deep within. He liked the new stubble Swan was growing; he liked the way it felt scraping his thighs. Liked everything about this, actually, Proko arranged cross-legged on top of his arms, which were themselves underneath a pillow, fists clenched and biceps pinned by Proko’s knees. Proko had lost the shorts and he was hard under K’s cheek, close and hot.

“What do you want?” Swan pulled back to ask. K wanted to pull his arms free, tug him in again. K wanted to keep his arms where they were. K wanted. K _wanted._

“Fuck me,” he said, too-loud in the dark, but it didn’t mortify him the way it once would’ve. He’d been working on that. Him and his _obscenely_ well-paid therapist, a matronly former Jersey punk scene queen with a PhD named Beatrice whose crows feet were a sharp contrast to the pale little scars where she’d once had a face full of studs. Beatrice said he needed to be more comfortable _asking_ for the things he _really_ wanted, and not in a way where nobody could tell if he was joking or not. He needed to trust that the people he loved wouldn’t mock him for his openness, his vulnerability.

They didn’t mock him. Swan turned him back on his belly, and Jiang set to work fingering him open because he liked it best, liked to see K spreading out around his knuckles, pink and _soft_ against the gold rings Jiang always wore. He felt full already with three fingers inside, couldn’t imagine how good he’d feel with somebody’s (anybody’s) cock inside him, coring him apart, making him take it, arms pinned by Proko’s full weight and legs held down and apart by Skov, who was at his most vicious like this, hands like iron manacles around K’s ankles and breath ticklish on the underside of his feet, blowing cool and taunting over his overheated skin.

“Who’d you want first?” Swan asked, almost-kind except for the heavy-lidded amusement in his eyes every time K jerked.

“Dealer’s choice,” K managed to respond, mouth wet with the saliva pooling on his tongue. “Just now. _Now.”_

“Sure thing,” one of them said, but he didn’t know which, because then there was a body on top of his thighs, straddling them and holding his ass open so they could work their cock _in,_ in in _in,_ and K was shuddering with it. He hadn’t had anybody inside of him since the last time he’d seen Swan, three months ago, when there was still a bite of chill in the mornings, winter lingering on the edges of mid-spring. It had been a two-day affair, all clubbing nights and late brunches and Swan’s hands, his mouth, his _cock._

It was Jiang inside him now, and he knew it because of how Jiang kept touching him where he was open and wet for it, touching where they were connected. It was a thing. A thing Jiang did. A thing K liked.

“Oh,” K said, and couldn’t stop until Proko hooked a thumb into his mouth, turning his face and holding him agape so he could feed K his cock, too, thick and scalding hot on his tongue. Nothing else felt this good. Nothing. Jiang started to come inside of him and pulled out halfway through so he could leave a few drops of it where K was getting swollen and raw from being fucked, tender and _vulnerable._

(What _intimacy.)_

Swan was next, laying all along his back and pressing little reverent kisses to the silken soft space behind his ears, nose bumping there, every inch of his skin lit up like a livewire. God. _God._

“You’re so hot for it, Joey,” Skov whispered against the tender inside of his knee. He feathered a stroke of his fingertips over K’s side. Everything felt too-good, like it might make him come. Everything. He hummed around Proko’s cock and nuzzled into his lap more, trying to get deeper. Fuller. That’s what he wanted.

He drifted while Swan fucked him, came back online abruptly when Swan pulled out so he could jerk off all over the small of his back, rubbing it into his skin like it was Skov’s fancy La Mer _créme régénération._ It was like being marked. K knew it was stupid but he couldn’t help but imagine that it wouldn’t wash off, that he’d go home and his boys would go back to their lives, separate and apart from him, but he’d still have this. Burned into his flesh. Branding him. _The Pack was here._

Proko tugged on his hair. He hissed through his teeth. He squirmed. K relaxed his jaw, ignoring the thick ache of it. He knew Proko was close. Could almost _feel_ it. He’d made this person. Remade him. Shaped him. Studied anatomy books and psychology books he could barely understand to make sure he was gonna get it _right._ Had made the decision to do it. To make as perfect a forgery as anyone ever had before.

He swallowed around Proko and looked up at him with wet, liquid-ink eyes. Met his steel-gray gaze. Proko started to say his name and then shuddered, and K swallowed again, mouth bruised and berry-dark when he pulled back to breathe.

“My turn, huh?” Skov said very, very quietly, and K’s arms were asleep and he was so fucked-out that he clenched his thighs at the thought of being fucked again. Fair was fair, though, and he loved Skov most when he was being fucked dumb on his obnoxiously-perfect dick. He opened his legs with a little effort, the muscles in his thighs jumping with exhaustion.

Skov cooed at him, an almost-mean sound that sent warmth pooling at the base of his belly. “Gonna let me hurt you?” He pressed a couple fingers in, rubbed them against K’s inner walls where he was so sensitized it _did_ hurt, kind of. It felt good, too, though.

He nodded into Proko’s lap. His face felt hot. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he whispered, nearly inaudible.

“Greedy slut,” Skov said, but sweetly. Fondly.

“Yeah,” K agreed, because it was okay to do that here. It was okay to be that. Greedy. Slutty. Whatever. Whatever he wanted to be. And fuck, he _wanted._

“Don’t wanna hurt you though.” Skov continued, like he hadn’t spoken. “Just hold still, Joey.” There was the slick, generic skin-on-skin sound of jerking off that every boy knew explicitly from the time they were old enough to figure out how to do it and the unique sighing, hitching gasps that Skov always made when he got himself off. K had first heard them in the showers after gym class their freshman year at Aglionby. He’d been weak for the combination ever since. He wanted to turn his head to watch but was too tired to do it and instead just did as he was told, staying perfectly still except for the rise and fall of his back with his breaths, which were more like pants than not. His heart thundered in his chest. He was so tired but so awake at the same time, aware of everything up to and including the splash of Skov’s come on him, making him even messier. Even more well-marked.

Proko moved quickly off of his arms once Skov had finished, and K almost cried from the feeling of the blood rushing back into them, swearing as the process was helped along by Swan’s hands massaging the ropy muscles cording his traitorous limbs with an easy, assured strength.

They turned him onto his back and bracketed him in the combined strength of their bodies, sweaty skin and expertly-hewn bones. Proko picked up one of his hands, still clenched into a fist. “What’ve you got?” He murmured, curious, as he peeled K’s fingers back.

A handful of sparkle was revealed— a tangle of bracelets, glinting onyx and gold beads.

“How fucking _gay!”_ Skov crowed at the sight of them, five circlets that had left impressions in K’s hand from where he’d clutched them so tight for so long. _“Friendship bracelets!”_

K snorted. “Yeah, that’s the gayest part of this whole,” he vaguely jerked his chin to indicate the naked pile of them, mussed hair and soft dicks and dried spunk and all. _This whole_ _thing._

They tussled over the bracelets, devolving into the fifteen-year-olds who’d fought over candy on the hood of the old Mitsu on Halloween night after smash-n-grabbing all the goodies from all the unattended porch bowls in Henrietta.

Once they’d settled down, wrists adorned with his dreams, K hummed his satisfaction, sore and dry-mouthed and inexpressibly _content._

“Tell me you love me,” he demanded, throwing an arm over his eyes. Another thing it was okay to ask for, now.

“We _love_ you,” Swan mumbled sleepily.

“A lot,” Skov added, with an audible eye roll. Like he wasn’t a needy bitch himself. K elbowed him with his free arm.

“We do.” Jiang agreed quietly.

“Your kiss is laced with birdlime, and your eyes,  Timarion, with fire.” Proko said, dramatic even in post-coital exhaustion. He waited a moment, and then added: “that was Meleager.”

“What the fuck is _birdlime?”_ K asked wonderingly after a few minutes of stunned _what the actual hell?_ silence. How he’d produced Prokopenko-the-bookworm continued to be one of the greatest mysteries of Joseph Kavinsky’s life.

No one answered, and their even breaths and soft snoring told him they had fallen asleep.

K had slept enough and instead lay still, listening, and watched the rising sun send orangey-pink light through the wall of windows behind them. They had time to sleep.

They had time for everything. If not now, then the next time they ran away like this. Together.

Forever.

***

_moon dust in your lungs_

_stars in your eyes_

_you are a child of the cosmos_

_and ruler of the skies._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
